


Hello and Goodbye Sarah Jane Smith

by AdrianaintheSnow



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: One shot I wrote after the death of Liz Sladen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianaintheSnow/pseuds/AdrianaintheSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After The Doctor learns that Sarah Jane is dead, he goes to comfort and eight-year-old crying about not being a good writer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello and Goodbye Sarah Jane Smith

**Author's Note:**

> Though cannon has yet to say that Sarah Jane is dead, (and I actually hope it never does) I still wrote this a while ago and wanted to post it here.

Sarah Jane Smith sat on the swing in the park by her aunt’s house with a crumpled up piece of paper in one hand. Her little, eight-year-old feet scuffed the ground as she snuffled quietly, her eyes filled with tears.

“Well, hello there!” a man’s voice caused her to jump. She turned to find a funny looking man had plopped down in the swing next to her holding a brown stuffed owl. His hair was decidedly not in style and he was wearing a bright blue bowtie and suspenders. Her eyebrows drew together.

“Hi,” she went back to dragging her feet across the dirt.

“What’s your name?” he asked. She eyed him speculatively.

“My aunt says not to talk to strangers,” she informed him gravely.

He cocked a smile at her, “Do I look strange.” She looked him up and down causing his nose to crinkle in amusement, “Alright, well, I’ll give you that one,” he conceded, “How about I guess your name?”

“Okay,” she replied timidly.

“Hmmm,” he considered it, “How about Wendy?” She shook her head, “Lucy?” Another headshake. “Raxamiltonashila?”

“That’s not a name,” she told him.

“How do you know?” he asked, his lips pursed defensively, but then he smiled. “Oh, all right. Let’s see: brown hair, intelligent eyes, and looking at me as though I’d never had any marbles to begin with; I say you look like a… Sarah Jane Smith.” She blinked up at him in surprise. “Was I right?” She nodded mutely. “Good, now that that question is out of the way, we can move on to a more important one: why are you crying?”

She sniffled again and kicked the dirt, “I want to be a writer.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re crying,” he pointed out.

“I’m not any good at it,” she said.

“Now how in the Universe did you get an idea like that in your head?”

She looked at the paper in her hand and handed it him without saying a word. He uncrumpled it and, as he read it, a dark expression crossed his face so briefly that Sarah Jane almost thought she’d imagined it. A few milliseconds later, a bright smile crossed his face.

“Well that’s rubbish,” he enthused ripping apart the note, “Who wrote you that?”

“My teacher,” she sniffed.

“Well what type of teacher do you have? A rubbish teacher I’d say.”

“I want to be a journalist, but Mr. Pimberly says that girls shouldn’t be journalists.”

“Oh, don’t listen to Mr. Pimberly. Your aunt’s a journalist and she’s a girl isn’t she?” She nodded. “Now, I know for certain that you’ll make a great journalist. I’d even go as far as to say you could be the number one journalist in all of Britain.”

“How would you know?” she inquired with her eyes narrowed.

“Oh, Sarah Jane Smith I can see that you’re a brilliant, kind, curious girl who would make for the perfect journalist and trust me, I’m a good judge of character.”

“Really,” she tilted her head at him.

“Really,” he winked at her, “and oh the stories you’ll have, the places you’ll see, the people you’ll help. Sarah Jane Smith: investigative journalist, but you’ll be so much more than that. You’ll be wonderful. Don’t listen to Mr. Pimberly. If anyone tells you that you can’t do something, you have to prove them wrong.” He smiled again, but there was a sadness to his eyes. “Here,” he said, clearing his throat as he held out the stuffed owl in his hand. “Found this on the street; it looked like it needed a good home.”

She cautiously took the owl and her eyes brightened a little as a smile tugged at her lips. “It’s cute,” she told him.

“I thought you might like him,” he grinned and clapped his hands, “Now, I’m sure your Aunt Lavinia is wondering where you are, so…”

She nodded and got up from the swing, but then looked back at him. “How do you know my Aunt’s name is Lavinia?” Sarah Jane’s eyes narrowed on him curiously, reminding him very much of her older self. “How do you know she’s a journalist?”

“Oh Sarah Jane, always with the questions,” he mused. She folded her arms across her chest and glared him down. “Would it help if I said you’d get all the answers some day?”

“No,” she replied stubbornly and he gave a chuckle, getting up from the swing and crouching so he was eye level with the eight year old.

“Sarah Jane,” he said with sadness that even the eight year old could perceive, “you have your whole life to get your questions answered, but for now it’s time for you to go home before your aunt keels over with worry.” She gave him a doubtful look but then nodded. She started to walk toward her aunt’s house, but turned to look at him after a few steps.

“Goodbye,” she called and turned away from him again. She faded out of sight.

The man collapsed back in his seat with tears in his eyes, “Goodbye,” he whispered, “My Sarah Jane Smith.”


End file.
